


Something Borrowed

by Rothari



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 13:57:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3612534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rothari/pseuds/Rothari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sigrid gets something of hers back, and feels like she has lost something that was never quite hers to begin with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Borrowed

It is nearly mid-day and Sigrid has just sent Tilda out to fetch water and began preparing the stew when there is a knock on the door. She has come to dread the sound. Four days have passed since the battle, and whenever news come, they are bad. Laketown was a small town, and she knows almost everyone who has been lost, in the fire or in the fighting. Reluctantly, Sigrid abandons the knife and the cabbage, and steels herself for whatever, or whoever, it will be this time. Yet when the door has swung open on creaking hinges she finds no one of her own people outside. Actually, she finds no one at all for an instant, before she thinks about lowering her eyes.

It is the Dwarf with the long white beard. _Balin,_ she thinks. _His name is Balin._ He was one of the few of their company who had bothered to properly introduce himself once they had all made their way up her family's toilet, and now he greets her with a bow, if one somewhat hindered by the large bundle of rags he carries in his arms.

“I came to hand back the things you gave to the lads we had to leave behind in Laketown, Miss. With our warmest thanks for lending them out.”

“Thank you, Master Balin, that's very kind of you,” Sigrid says, surprised the Dwarves have even thought about such a thing, when it was really more of a gift than a loan, and steps forward to take them from him. Up close, she notices how very tired his face looks, how there are dark rings under his eyes and spots of dirt left here and there. Already old, he seems to have aged ten years since she saw him last. Of course, these days cannot be easy for those living under the Mountain, either. "Is there anything else?”

Balin nods. “Actually, there is something I would like to speak to your father about. Is he here?”

Sigrid points to the staircase in the corner. “Upstairs.” He has been busy with some of the elders of their town all morning; sometimes when their discussion grows heated she hears their voices trickle down through the floor. Da doesn't know what to do, no more than anyone else does, but he tries.

*

When the Dwarf has left the room, Sigrid puts the bundle down on the table beside the vegetables and begins to sort through it. It will not take long, and she told her sister to run past old Gerda to see if she could fetch her some water too, anyway. The cabbage will have to wait.

At the top of the pile are some of Da's old shirts that she has mended many times over. The oldest stitches are crooked and uneven, but the more recent ones look neat. She has grown quite skilled over the years. Next, the coat Bain has grown too tall for – he has caught up with Sigrid in height though he is three years younger – and a bit of soft fine cloth that was meant for a new dress for Tilda, and then other scraps and pieces from a home that no longer exists. She makes little heaps for all possible uses she can think of – blankets for the children, bandages for the wounded, patches for ripped and torn clothes... Though King Thranduil has proved to be very helpful (more so than he looks, Sigrid thinks) they have almost nothing left, and it has begun to snow every night. Sometimes she wonders if they survived the fire only to freeze to death instead.

At the very bottom, hidden under all the other things, she finds something of her own. A scarf, an old one she made four or five years ago, finely knitted in a dark red yarn. She threw it to Fíli, the blond prince, she remembers, so that he would have something more on than an old shirt, after he had made sure his sick brother was dressed as warmly as possible while taking nothing for himself. He had tied it around his waist as a belt with those large yet nimble fingers that she found quite curious to look at, and–

_He is dead._

When they were told in passing after the battle that Thorin Oakenshield and his heirs had fallen, Tilda had started to cry. Sigrid had not; instead she sat silent, cradling her sister to her chest, putting all her mind to the task of comforting her sister even though there seemed to be so very little left to take comfort in. Yet now, when she is holding the worn item, which has lost most of its shine shine long ago, she remembers Fíli saving her from the Orc. He had not been armed, but he had done it anyway, a small figure throwing himself through the room at the creature that had knocked her over. She sees his face before her eyes, his proud bearing, the way he looked his title even in the tatters they had scrambled together. Probably he was used to much better, but he had seemed grateful for them all the same, and his smile had been warm. Tired and worried, yes; but warm.

And _now_ , now he will never smile again.

Sigrid shivers, and suddenly the room feels very dark. The noise from the small fire on the hearth grows loud in her ears, like a hundred burning houses. He called for her to take his hand and they escaped the dragon together, but that was not enough, in the end. Not for him.

 _I never even thanked him_ , she thinks, _I never even said..._

She startles when she hears someone behind her, boots clattering against the floor.

“Alright there, lassie?” Balin has come back down again. If he has spoken to Da already, she cannot imagine how long she must have spent, just standing, lost in thoughts.

“Yes...” Sigrid answers as he comes facing her. “Yes.” She tries to keep her voice steady, but hears for herself that it quivers.

He gestures towards the scarf in her hands. “Something of yours, is it?”

“It's my old shawl. I – I gave it to one of the princes.” Why she feels the need to go on, she cannot understand. “To Fíli.”

Balin stands perfectly still for a heartbeat. Then he raises a hand to clutch a corner of the scarf, studying it for a moment before letting it go again, with something that could possibly be a small chuckle. “'Tis rather fitting, that you gave it to him.”

Sigrid raises her eyebrows in question, and the old Dwarf clears his throat. “Aye, red is his...” He stops himself abruptly. “Red _was_ his colour. Always liked it, he did, though the others favoured blue.” He turns his head to the side, and she pretends not to notice the way his eyes have gone glistening wet as he bows to bid her farewell.

“I never knew him that well,” Sigrid says, when he is just about to step outside. “Though – I think I would have liked to.”

Balin looks back at her, and the edges of his mouth turn upwards, ever so little. “Aye... I think he would have liked to know you, too.”

For a moment, as he holds the door up, the sun outside breaks through the clouds and floods the room, warm and golden, and she thinks that _maybe_ –

But then he lets it fall shut, and she stands in the darkness again, grasping only the briefest memory.

*

“Here comes the water! Are you done with the greens?” Sigrid looks up as her sister comes back inside, and Tilda makes a sudden halt and puts the bucket down on the floor. “Sigrid, you're crying...” She runs to Sigrid's side and clings to her dress, eyes wide with fear. “Why are you crying?”

Sigrid wants to say that she cries for everything that has happened. For all the lives cut short, for fingers laying limp and cold, and for something she thinks she maybe lost, though she never knew it was possible to lose something you never even had.

Once she can catch her breath, however, those are not the words that cross her lips. “I'm sorry, Tilda, it's nothing, I didn't mean to scare you... Can you go fill the pot while I finish that cabbage? Da and the other must be getting hungry.”

She throws the scarf around her shoulders and goes to pick up the knife. Fíli did not break, and neither will she.

*

A couple of days later, they gather at sunset on the streets of Dale to pay their last respects to the fallen king. The big curved horns are blown and the echoes ring through the air, loud and clear, all the way from the city to the gates of Erebor. Deep under the Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield and his heirs now lay buried, returned to the stone it is said they and their kin come from. Sigrid stands with her family, close together, her hand tucked under her father's arm. The wind blows chilly, perhaps even more so today than any other day, as if the world too is grieving with its people.

“I wish they weren't dead, Da.” Her sister's voice is barely more than a whisper, and she holds her doll in a trembling grip. It's not fair, she has said all afternoon, not fair that the two princes should be dead when they just saved Kíli's life in Laketown. “They weren't even old.”

“I know, darling.” Their father leans forward to press a kiss to Tilda's hair. “But they fell defending their home... They were very, very brave.”

 _Yes, Fíli was brave_ , Sigrid thinks. _Maybe I never knew him very well, but that, I know._ She pulls the scarf tighter around herself. And even though it does little to dry her tears, it shelters her from the cold.

**Author's Note:**

> Shamelessly based on the appearance of a random scarf around Sigrid's shoulders at the end of BOTFA and the fact that Fíli wore something of a vaguely similar colour around his waist when he left Laketown. I felt a burning need to make these two completely unrelated things line up, and, well, this happened.


End file.
